Ducking and weaving through the sky, the Crimson Wing struggled to outpace the pursuing port authority fighters. Pound for pound the Crimson Wing was the better ship, but with just Dacian and Zeetee to pilot it they were lucky to careen out of the way of most of the shots.

The lush greenery gave way to arid plains and thin grass, sweeping towards distant canyons. Their natural beauty was lost on Zeetee, however, who kept his photoreceptor locked on the rearview monitor. The Ruusan port authority was hot on their tail.

“Can’t you shake them?” Dacian squawked in from the ship’s comm. “There is no way their backwater customs ships can outrun the Crimson Wing.”

“I told you, I’m not a combat pilot!” Zeetee snapped back. He reflected that if he were capable of sweating with fear, he would be doing so presently. “Can’t you shoot them down?”

“These are somewhat difficult circumstances,” Dacian growled. “That, and they’re below my visible firing arrrrearrgh!”

“What was that?”

“Nevermind!” Dacian wheezed. “Just get us out of here!”

Zeetee turned back to the front viewport and saw a collection of spots floating through the air off in the distance. In an instant he pushed his logic circuits further than they had been required before and formulated a desperate gambit. “Hold on!”

Swinging hard over to line up their path with the floating dots, Zeetee’s suspicions were confirmed when they resolved to be a passing flock of bouncers - the unusual native inhabitants of Ruusan. Zeetee turned the Crimson Wing hard on it’s side so that it flew sideways through the air.

Passing just in front of the startled bouncers, the two trailing fighters were much less cautious and managed to plough straight through the flock. Their windshields were splattered with screeching, flying fuzz balls and they both banked hard away to clear their view.

In this time Zeetee swung the Crimson Wing low to the ground and sped off, not daring to risk a look back until the sensors told him the pursuers had definitely been lost.

“Very clever,” said Dacian. “You do realize the bouncers are sentient?”

“I… I didn’t have time to think of anything else. Our prognosis was grim, drastic action was called for.”

Dacian made no comment, cutting the comm as he shut down the top turret. When he arrived back on the bridge he looked weaker and more sickly than ever. “We’re almost at the Valley. I can sense it.”

Senses or no, Zeetee could already see a valley of sorts on the horizon, and knew they must have arrived. “Can we expect any more… confrontations?”

No reply was forthcoming, Dacian choosing instead to settle into the co-pilot seat and resume reading his new book. Zeetee let out a static hiss of frustration and brought the Crimson Wing into the valley.

At first he wasn’t sure what exactly they were looking for. Then, in the middle of the valley could be seen a raised plateau dotted with what were clearly hand-made construction. Wordlessly he piloted them over to the plateau and brought the ship down on the nearest edge.

“Sensors detecting two different sites, one much more recent yet still years old.”

“That’ll be the Imperial base,” Dacian murmured. “Abandoned now, but during the Galactic Civil War an Imperial inquisitor apparently tried to access the power held in the valley. He failed.”

“Dacian, you look unwell, I’m afraid I must again strongly advise against-”

“Lower the boarding ramp and get me a crutch,” Dacian murmured. “We’re going now.”



The Imperial camp was of no interest to Dacian. It was scarred from battles and already showed signs of being reclaimed by nature. The temple, however, was another matter. Surrounded with large statues of the Jedi who sacrificed their lives during the final battle of the Sith war, its vaunted stone walls seemed unchanged by the passing of ages.

Dacian and Zeetee approached the front doors cautiously. The hung open, allowing the two to step inside with ease. Each time Dacian’s crutch struck against the stone tiles of the floor it echoed throughout the entry chamber, adding to the eerie sense of emptiness.

“Okay, we’re here,” said Zeetee, as they moved through the massive temple. “Now what are we looking for?”

“The way down,” Dacian replied. He pointed to a small spiral staircase downwards hidden against one wall. “There. I can feel it strongly now. We are close.”

Getting down the stairs was a difficult task, especially as it gradually shifted from finished stone to rough-hewn cave as they went deep down into the plateau itself. After what would seem like an agonizing age for a being without a fixed sense of time, Zeetee at last saw light below them.

“What could possibly be lighting this abandoned cave up?”

Dacian hesitated, his face ever more grim. “You may not understand the answer.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Zeetee had to hand it to Dacian - he had no clue what they were looking at.

The huge chamber beneath the temple was some sort of tribute to the final battle, the walls being covered in carved likenesses of the great Jedi who led the Army of Light. Tunnels ran off in every direction, narrow and rough things that seemed to wind through cracks in the natural stone, but it was this central chamber that commanded all attention.

Hanging in the middle of the chamber was a floating orb.

Zeetee felt nothing as they crept closer - indeed, feeling was an inappropriate term for the senses he had available. Despite this, it took only a glance at Dacian to confirm his suspicions that this orb was no common thing. Whatever aura it gave off seemed to be quite palpable for the living, even if it defied everything Zeetee knew about medical science.

“This isn’t going to be like Malachor V, is it?” Zeetee politely inquired as they approached.

“No.”

The surface of the orb began to ripple, looking like liquid mercury.

“…Probably not.”

The light of the room seemed to emanate from the sphere, an unearthly glow that continued to grow. They were now so close that Zeetee could reach out and touch it if he wanted, but doing so struck him as unwise.

“Now what?”

Dacian outstretched a hand, delicately touching a single finger against the surface of the orb. This caused the orb to ripple more intensely so that it resembled a choppy sea before resolving itself once more. The new surface had a mirror-like sheen, but Zeetee and Dacian were not the only two reflected.

“Greetings to you,” said a black-robed man who - in the reflection, at least - stood between Dacian and Zeetee. His hair was dark and wild, and he had a sharp beard drawn tight around his lips. He looked haggard, but he was nothing compared to the men and women standing all around him who could be described as spectral at best.

“Kaan, I presume?” said Dacian.

“You presume much,” replied the man who was presumably Kaan. “Kaan is dead and has been for uncountable ages. What you see before you is his shadow, his imprisoned shade. And these,” he gestured with his arms, taking in his ragged followers “are all that remains of his glorious Brotherhood.”

“This is the Thought Bomb, then.”

“Yes, it is! Have you come all the way for it? You’ve wasted your time if so, it is quite wasted. Now it is merely a prison for I and my kind. Our suffering is great, ever since-”

“How did you make it?”

Kaan seemed to glare, his rhythm broken. “For your insolence, I should do you the disservice of answering your question - so that you too might share my folly and my prison!”

“Tell me what I want to know,” Dacian insisted, “and I shall consider releasing you as Kyle Katarn released your former cellmates.”

At this the chamber suddenly became quite tense. Every shade’s head popped up, half-faded eyes suddenly blazing to life. Even Kaan’s drawn face hung open with shock and perhaps a glimmer of ill-concealed hope. “What do you want to know?”

“The Thought Bomb. What is it? How did you make it?”

“It was the weapon, the ultimate weapon, the technique of which was taught to me by a treacherous peer by the name of Bane. I do not begrudge him his continuation of the Sith ways, but were I still able to work my will I would see him take my place here for ten millennia in payment for my suffering.”

“What was this technique? What did it do?”

“Imagine a vacuum - a black hole, born of the dark side which sucks at your very soul. The stronger one is connected to the Force, the stronger the soul, and thus the stronger the pull. The ritual is long and arduous, much too complex to share with simple words. It is something of the old Sith, and can only be felt.”

“You are the old Sith now,” Dacian coldly countered. “Words will suffice plenty for my purposes. Tell me more, I must know everything about it.”

Kaan seemed irritated, but he wisely kept this in check. “When one feels the pull of the Thought Bomb, it sucks the very soul from you and leaves nothing but dust. Here our spirits are trapped, soaking in the agonizing powers of the Dark Side until the end of time, imprisoned. For the first age at least we took comfort in sharing our torture with our nemesis, the Jedi, but after they were released and we were left to be forgotten we have gone without comfort.”

“Pardon my interruption,” said Zeetee, “but I’m detecting growing background radiation. It’s not dangerous per se, but it’s abnormal.”

Dacian glanced back at Kaan’s reflection. “Care to comment?”

“I have spent a grim millennia in suffering here, I can hardly remember the meaning of words much less the cause of radiation.” Kaan seemed to pause, considering something, before starting again. “You are not Sith, but you are not Jedi. The Dark Side lingers about you, but it is unwelcome. Tell me, to whom do I speak?”

“I am Dacian Palestar, and I am simply a man on a journey.” Zeetee was just able to suppress a snort of laughter. “So this is a ritual of the Dark Side of the Force. This vacuum sensation, though, that is not of the Force, is it?”

Kaan became uneasy, but he did reply. “No, it is not. The Dark Side is but a spear, a lance we use to pierce the veil of the Force. Through this puncture we open up to the pure vacuum of space - that is, a space without the Force. Such a place is anathema to life, especially those of strong souls.”

“So it is true…” Dacian muttered. “Come, Zeetee, we are finished here for the moment.”

“No, I think not,” replied Kaan with a desperate, wolfish grin. “I have entertained your questions so far, but only to garner enough time to marshal my imprisoned brethren. Your body is weak, but your spirit calls to us like a beacon and it shall be ours! Ours to escape our incarceration or ours to join our - hey, where are you going?”

For a man near-crippled with untended injuries, Dacian could really set off at a pace. Zeetee hurried after him, perplexed at what these ‘reflections’ were actually capable of. It must have been something, however, for just as Dacian reached the turn in the stairs he stopped as if grabbed in vicelike grips.

Dacian grunted and growled, but ultimately he was lifted bodily into the air and brought back down towards the Thought Bomb. Zeetee followed, only to see in the reflection of the sphere that the Brotherhood had caught up with Dacian and grabbed him. Curious, Zeetee waved his hand through a passing Brother and saw that it was immaterial, yet their reflected grip on Dacian was hard as iron.

“Your resistance is respectable, if futile,” said Kaan, taking up a position behind Dacian. “We will have our freedom, one way or another.”

“Zeetee!” Dacian barked as he struggled. “Push it! Shove it away! They’re bound to their prison!”

Uncertain, Zeetee took another step towards the Thought Bomb. He extended one hand and gave it a gentle shove, noticing how the sphere seemed to push through the air.

“Zeetee!” Dacian shouted, this time more demanding. Light was starting to bend and shudder around him, a worrying sign.

“Quiet, wretch, this will only take a moment,” Kaan muttered.

Zeetee raised one metal foot and kicked the Thought Bomb as hard as he could, sending the silvery sphere toppling through the air and down a side passage. In the reflection the Brotherhood were sent flying in all directions as their orientation spun with the sphere and they were dragged after it.

Dacian dropped to the ground gasping as the screams of Kaan and his brothers receded. Alone again, Zeetee rushed to his master’s side. “Are you injured?”

“Nothing new, at least.” Dacian struggled to his feet and nodded towards the exit. “I have no more interest in this place. Let’s get out of here.”

The Crimson Wing drifted without true direction, hopping from system to system listlessly. Sometimes Dacian didn’t even give Zeetee directions, seemingly unconcerned with their destination. Perhaps his injuries were finally catching up to him, mused his mechanical medic, or perhaps something on Ruusan had disturbed him. Imagining what might be sufficient to disturb Dacian caused Zeetee’s motivator to shudder, so he tried not to dwell on the possibility.

At last, Zeetee went to the medical bay to check up on his melancholy patient. Dacian was laid out on the examination table, his books and other materials by his side.

He had stripped down to his waist, leaving his equipment in a locker and exposing a roadmap of scars, cuts, and bruises. These didn’t seem to concern Dacian quite so much as the book in his hands, however, which he sullenly threw aside as Zeetee approached.

“Where are we now?”

“Hyperspace. Along the Hydian Way, onwards to nowhere in particular. I’m not sure about the prognosis for this trip.”

Dacian seemed to brood on this, but at Zeetee’s insistence his rolled over on to his stomach. “How does it look?”

Zeetee made a clicking sound of disapproval as he prodded at Dacian’s various wounds. “Bad, and getting worse.”

“Are you talking about my injuries, or the trip?”

“Take your pick.”

The legs in particular were looking worse. The wound Dacian had received at the outset of his journey was not festering, yet it still seemed to be healing too slowly. “This is going to hurt.”

If it did, Dacian didn’t say anything as Zeetee cracked the scabbing tissue and reset the gash for what must have been the fifth time. He wrapped fresh bandages around it, muttering “Hopefully it will hold this time, if you don’t go starting any more fights.”

Dacian was silent on the matter. Finishing up the examination, Zeetee rolled Dacian on to his back. “Well, you’ll hold together another day I suppose, but not for much longer. Food and water and even atmosphere on this ship aren’t ideal for recovery, either. I know I’ve said it before, but this mission of yours will kill you. What more do you need to do?”

“I cannot possibly know,” Dacian muttered, as he rolled off the table and on to unsteady feet. “This knowledge is the very definition of heresy and conspiracy. It is hidden beyond mortal eyes. That’s part of the point.”

Having marshalled what courage his programming could muster, Zeetee took a step forwards and put a steadying hand on Dacian’s shoulder. “In that case, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist on an immediate halt to your plans and confine you to your bed until you’re fit to move about. Doctor’s orders.”

Dacian turned and gave Zeetee a look that approached amusement. “Do you really mean that?” Zeetee nodded firmly. “I suppose you know even in my weakened state I could take you apart using only my mind?”

“True, but then you’d fall apart before you reach the next civilized system to buy a replacement med-droid.”

Dacian’s amusement became a full on half-smile, the most emotion Zeetee had yet seen him express. “You really were built by James. I suppose if you insist…” He turned on his wobbly heel and set off towards the bridge. “Let’s talk.”

As the two reached the bridge, Dacian collapsed into the captain’s chair as his strength left him. Zeetee took up a position nearby in case he fainted, but Dacian seemed to catch his breath after a few moments of weakness.

“So far my investigations have given me some strong evidence for the theory put forth in the text I found on Xa’Fel. The Thought Bomb is real, and what’s more it’s an example of extra-Force power that the Xa’Fel author had not heard of themselves. Independent confirmation that the Force itself is not absolute in nature, and that Malachor V was not an isolated incident.”

“Okay, so now you know more about the Force - isn’t that what you wanted to find out?”

Dacian shook his head. “No. It’s not enough. I need to see the process in action, to know that it’s real. So far all I have are echoes, leftovers, the accounts of others - I must experience the death of the Force, to know it can be killed.” His eyes seemed to alight with a sudden idea, and Dacian looked at Zeetee in an all new light.

“Doctor… I may have a new patient for you to diagnose.”

“What? Diagnose the force? …It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Proper?”

“It’s against my programming to examine a deity.”

“Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way.” Dacian sighed, taking a moment to think. He tried punching in a few commands on the console in front of him.

The holographic display lit up, showing a dissected human figure yanked from a medical anatomy library. “Say we have a patient.”

Red eye blinking with the effort of allegorical thinking, Zeetee managed an “Okay…”

“We are his blood. The fewer of us, the weaker the Force in general is. Likewise, without the body we would perish. The Force even creates its own antibodies, in the Jedi and the Sith each ready to kill one another - or any threat to their environment.”

“Are you suggesting the Force can be ‘bled’ to death?” said Zeetee, who shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not sure killing everyone is the most efficient solution.”

“I understand that, but there are other ways to use circulation against the body; blood clots, heart attacks, pinched veins…”

“So what you’re looking for are ways to disrupt the blood flow of the Force. I think I understand.” Zeetee walked over to the human hologram and studied it critically.

“The first step is to make the body weak - overwhelm its immune system, load it down with non-lethal yet taxing nuisance diseases.”

“That much has been done,” Dacian replied. “The Jedi and Sith orders are scattered, and the affairs of the Force are in disarray galaxy-wide.”

Zeetee reached a hand into the hologram, grasping an artery as though it were string and pulling it about. “From there, there are a lot of ways to get something lethal into the blood stream. In a closed system like the Force, however…”

Dacian shook his head. “The Force doesn’t eat. It doesn’t breath. It can be punctured, that much I’ve seen, but how exactly to do it?”

“Scabs!” Zeetee snapped his fingers as though coming to a sudden realization. “One of the most common sources of infection - once a cut scabs over and the patient idly picks it off again, the freshly re-exposed cut is an easy entry point for bacteria.”

“Using an old injury? I like it.”

“The only problem is finding what the Force considers a wound. If blood represents life, then what you’ve seen so far is just pus oozing from infected cuts. Malachor V is disease, but the actual injury itself would be something else.”

With one hand on the console to steady himself, Dacian managed to pull himself slowly to his feet. In a voice barely above a whisper he said “I understand now. I know where to go next - Zeetee, bring us out of hyperspace, I have new coordinates for you.”

Confused, Zeetee rushed to follow his orders. “Where are we going?”

“To expose old wounds,” Dacian growled. “Point us towards the core. Don’t bother looking for it in any charts, I’ll let you know when we’ve gotten close.”

The galaxy at large was a place of unspoken arrangements. Though at first glance the governments of the day seemed packed with religious crusaders, fanatical ideologues, and reckless warlords, the reality was that every player that meant to last more than a few months learnt to speak without saying anything, and listen without hearing. Unofficial borders cut through supposedly sovereign territory, creating unofficial maps that looked nothing like the supposed political arrangements of the galaxy.

This also applied to matters of public perception as easily as it did to politics, and when it manifested, resulted in some unusual galactic conventions.

One of the most unusual was that surrounding the remains of the planet Alderaan.

The Empire had done a terrific job of downplaying it over the years - by shifting responsibility on to the previous administration, by exaggerating the necessity of the act, and most of all, by performing fresh, new atrocities that made the deaths of many millions a scant generation ago seem like ancient history.

Alderaan rarely featured in the rallying cries against the Empire any more. The galaxy was tired of Alderaan. Bored with it, even. As interest in Alderaan dwindled (along with the remaining population of self-identifying Alderaanians), so too did interest in its remains. With no firm galactic government in control of the whole galaxy, little time could be spared to look after a bunch of old rocks for the sake of history. Everyone was too busy trying to prevent or initiate another Alderaan of their own.

And so, when the Crimson Wing dropped out of hyperspace in a spot that recent nav-computers neglect to mark, there was nothing but an out-of-service buoy to greet them.

“Take us in close,” Dacian muttered. Zeetee glanced over at him, to see if he was being overcome by the same dark forces that had plagued him at their previous stops. For the moment, however, he seemed quite calm and normal.

The Crimson Wing darted around some chunks of planet that had drifted out further than the rest. The Death Star had been relatively thorough, but there was still a rough field of debris ahead, and it was dense enough in the center to attract their attention.

After a few minutes of tense, slow progress, Zeetee felt he had to hazard a question. “So what are you looking for this time? More ghosts?”

“No. This is a perfectly ordinary planetary graveyard,” said Dacian, adding “for now.”

More awkward, cautious flying followed, as Zeetee pressed his weak piloting skills to bring them as close as he dared to the heart of the debris field. He was just about to ask Dacian again if he knew what he was doing when Dacian suddenly perked up in his seat.

“This is the spot,” he whispered. “But… there’s something wrong.”

The colour drained from his face as he turned towards Zeetee. “We’re not alone.”

Before Zeetee could ask what he meant, the long-range sensors began buzzing a warning. Unidentified ship detected. Had it just dropped out of hyperspace, or had it been waiting for them?

No time to wait and find out. “We can’t jump to hyperspace in the middle of all this rock!”

“Then get us out of here!” Dacian shouted, as he got to his feet. “I’ll man the-” He made it no further than the first step before his physical weakness took hold, and his legs fell out from under him.

“Stay here and strap yourself in,” said Zeetee, as he brought the Crimson Wing around. “This could get somewhat… unsafe.” He raised their combat shields.

Simiyiar-class Light Freighter Rogue Shadow, en route in hyperspace

To establish our position in a galaxy of strife, we will do anything to appear as if we established it. Reports fly out all over the holonet not to spread truth, but to make it. Everything that can be seen is not what it seems to be…Adrian gazed at the Shadow’s new pilot. Well, he certainly has taken to piloting a freighter with more enthusiasm than I thought would be possible, particularly after flying Deathsabers so long. The Susevfian paused. But perhaps becoming a Jensaarai maybe is joy enough, being elevated and enlightened from the common being?

“Gauvain,” said Adrian calmly, “I’ll be in the galley.”

“Hungry already?” grinned the pilot, “I thought you just ate two hours ago…”

“I wish I could have your people’s appetite, or rather lack of it,” replied the Jensaarai casually.

Théry chuckled as the warrior wandered through the Shadow’s barren holds to the aft galley. He snagged a cup of caf from its dispenser. A little blacker than I’d like…The engines besides the man began to whine intensely. That’s not a good sign…The deck left his feet as a wall slammed into his back with a clatter. A brutish grunt escaped his gut. Frowning, Adrian heaved himself to fly towards the ceiling. What the hell? No inertial compensators, and now no artificial gravity?

You do not need them.

Adrian’s hand immediately went to the cold hilt of his lightsaber. It was an eerily familiar presence, not particular to any one person, but rather to a distinct thing. He had felt it when Swenson lost control of his body on Dorumna. He had felt it when some power had yanked the strings of some of his apprentices as if they were mere puppets. He had felt it subtly yank at his own essence since his childhood, daring and cajoling him to do new things; inadvertently persuading him to do things he never would have dreamed possible.

He relinquished his hold on the weapon; it could do him no good. Closing his eyes, Adrian waded into the currents of the Force and reached out for Gauvain’s presence. There. He felt the near human’s essence intermingled with that of that unknown force’s. Gauvain’s presence was there, but he was no longer acting as himself: he was a mere prisoner of his own body. Frak.

As he focused his attention on his fellow Jensaarai, Ravenna felt distinctively that a thousand eyes were upon him; silently watching his every twitch like scientists over a lab rat. He couldn’t take it. The man pushed against the ceiling of the craft, which torpedoed him over the few duraplast crates to the Mon Cal freighter’s hold. His hands and legs pushed off nearly every surface possible before he finally reached the cockpit of the Shadow. Gauvain sat rigidly in his chair, expertly adjusting the controls and flight path of the craft with an inhuman speed and precision. The stars did not fly past them in straight lines, but seemed to continually curve like the burrows of Dantooinian mole rats. He glanced at the speedometer of the craft. We can’t possibly be going that fast….

“Gauvain,” demanded Adrian, grasping the pilot’s shoulder, “what are you doing? Gauvain? Gauvain!”

Different intonations did nothing to stir the man from his trance. Adrian tried to pull the man out of his seat, and promptly found himself inexplicably slammed against a bulkhead. Rubbing his head, he took in a breath of stale, recycled air and rose again. The celestial tunnel of stars collapsed into a dull reality of swirling rocks and dust. He immediately felt the anguish of millions pulse through him like his own blood. They cried out to him, they spurred him onward with cajoles and tears; with pleas and silence. They threatened to overwhelm him in a tide of emotions. They washed up against the wall of disciplined training and seeped through its cracks. The Force marched over and through Ravenna’s mind. He frowned. Becoming a Jensaarai maybe is sorrow enough, being enthralled and reduced from a common being to a beast.

Gauvain seemed to echo his sentiment, blasting away at some ship in front of him with inhuman precision and emotion. His flying and fighting only limited by the hardware upon which he was forced to rely on. The hardware upon which the mysterious force was forced to rely on for its existence.

Laser fire splashed against the Crimson Wing's shields in hot red flashes, causing the ship to shudder. "I cannot evade them!" Zeetee exclaimed, struggling all the while with the guidance controls. "Whoever this aggressor is, they must be good."

"Too good," Dacian muttered from where he clutched the copilot's seat. Watching the mysterious attacker only confirmed Dacian's hunch - he was too good, reacting with preternatural certainty, seemingly drawing a beat on the Crimson Wing's new position before Zeetee even tried to dodge. Only a Force-guided pilot could possibly be that precise.

"Shields are dropping fast on the aft quarter of the ship!" said Zeetee. He frantically tapped the shield strength display to emphasize his point. "We will not last much longer, you need to think of something!"

Dacian gave Zeetee a sour look before tightening his grip on his seat. "We need to play dead."

"What?!" Zeetee's bright red eye swivelled round in shock. "But- that's not... Why? They'll tear us apart!"

Another shudder told them the aft shields had just shed another layer of protection. "They're already going to do that in a few seconds. Cut all power but basic life support, blow a nonessential circuit close to the outer hull, and hope it doesn't breach. If we're lucky they'll think we're dead in the water and stop to investigate."

"Then what?"

The lights on the bridge flickered as the shields came down. "I don't know. I suppose we'll just have to see."

Zeetee thought of arguing, but he was simply too overwhelmed by the situation. Instead, he cut the engines as well as power to all systems but life support and set an ammo magazine near the central turret to overload. The pressure cooked off the ammo causing a blast that half-separated the turret and cracked the outer hull, but didn't vent any crew sections.

"It is done," Zeetee whispered. "Our prognosis looks fairly bleak." As he spoke he began to float upwards and tumbled away. "Do you think it will work?"

Dacian tightened his seat restraints. He wasn't one for zero-g acrobatics. "If it doesn't, we won't be around long enough to know."

Zeetee had begun to respond but the words were lost on Dacian, who seemed to sink into a trance. The force was thick in the air, even a droid couldn't help but feel uncomfortable in its presence. This wasn't right. The Force had always been about subtle guidance and omens, not crude action. It stank of desperation.

Unfortunately for the two passengers of the Crimson Wing, desperate didn't mean helpless. And so the attacking ship closed in for the kill...

Adrian felt the whirlwind of frantic emotion bleed out of his body. The sudden assault hellbent on overwhelming his mind dried up like a river tide, gently leaving impressions of its visit forever. Desperation abandoned him. Ravenna spared a glance at Gauvan. He shook his head. Still stuck in that zombie-like state...but why? We've stopped pursuing that ship...because that ship has stopped...why? Gauvan...that thing damaged it that so much that it's not going to do anything else?

No. Search through your feelings as you focus on that ship.

Frowning, the Jensaarai closed his eyes and dropped into a trance. In his mind's eye, the warrior detected the aura of the craft and bent on it. It seemed to speak of brave new worlds and conquest. Of glory and blood. Of talismans and sacrifice. But through it all, the threads of darkness wove their intricate web. Even the most simplistic acts taken aboard that craft had led to atrocities which cast the Galactic Empire as a paragon of peace and idealism in comparison. And at the centre of these webs sat a single, unassuming, perhaps even average person if not for his accoutrements. All the darkness woven through the ship linked back to him.

Dacian. You feel what he has done. What he seeks to do. You will kill him. A darksider like this cannot be allowed to live. He is beyond correction.

Adrian let a scowl flourish across his face. Why don't you have Gauvan here finish him off with a slew of laser bolts? You've already won the battle.

It is not enough for this man to die. He has done and wills the unspeakable. Therefore he must be made an example of, and there must be witnesses to his death to ensure that no-one ever tries to follow his path ever again. There is a droid onboard that ship. You will leave it alone so that his servants will know of his fate.

I will see what can be done.

You will do more than that for your own sake. Do not think that Dacian will give you any mercy Jensaarai.

A metallic thud reverberated throughout the hull. He turned toward the sound to see a vortex of mixing gases rising from a hatch. We've docked with the other ship. And now this thing wants me to kill a man I do not know. But a man of darkness that clearly threatens this spirit. But if he can threaten this spirit, what could he do to me? They say some bad qualities form great talents... Adrian tightened the clasp of his grey cloak to his sable body armor before striding over to the ventral hatch. As he dropped through the airlock on the Wing's deck, he ignited the icy blue blade of his saber; appearing more like an avatar of darkness than a son of the light.

"They've docked." Zeetee's voice was barely above a whisper, betraying no small amount of fear. "Are they boarding the ship? Do they mean to kill us?"

"Kill me, perhaps," Dacian grunted as he loosened his seat's restraints. "I don't know who the Force has sent, but they will be sensitive to the Force and a willing pawn. I've no chance in a fight right now."

Zeetee turned to examine his patient. "You're right. Even if you won the fight, too much physical exertion and you might be as good as dead."

Now free from his restraints, Dacian drifted towards the hallway just beyond the bridge. "Find somewhere safe and shut yourself down. If you're lucky even if they find you they'll dismiss you and move on."

"What about you? What if you need me out there?"

Dacian grabbed the side of the doorway and turned back towards Zeetee. "More than that I need you in one piece. This opponant is much too powerful for you to help me now. Stay safe and be ready to assist me once we're free and clear."

"Do you really think you can win?"

Uncertainty was an unfamiliar cloak on Dacian's shoulders, but even a moment's hesitation spoke volumes about the situation. "I suppose we'll see." With that, he pushed off into the hall beyond.

Zeetee wavered for but a moment, considering whether he should disobey Dacian and follow him for his own good, to lend aide in case he needed it. Instead, the medical droid opened up a small supply cabinet stashed under a command console. Folding himself up with practiced ease, he slipped into the cabinet and pulled the door shut.

As his systems shut down, he spent one last moment furiously contemplating the possible results of their predicament. Their prognosis was dire indeed.



Floating through the zero-g halls of the darkened ship, Dacian saw no movement and heard no sound. The Crimson Wing was about the size of a large light freighter, but was still only so big - sooner or later, whomever was hunting them would find him.

He passed the medbay and his personal quarters, but ignored both. Neither would make good hiding places. At last, considering time might have been running short, he reached up for the grate over a narrow air vent and knocked it out. The grate floated away.

Instead of climbing in, however, he instead pulled up a floor panel underneath the grate, revealing a smuggling hold Silk had installed for emergency subterfuge. He crawled into the smuggling compartment and pulled the floor panel back down over it.

Even this relatively mild exertion left Dacian winded. He took a moment to steady his breathing and turned an attentive ear to the hallway above. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

Darkness. It was everywhere. It was everything.

His pale blue blade illuminated the gloomy corridor upon whose floors that the likes of Palestar, Lord Silk, shadowy sith, and eerie void knights had all strode. Even now, Adrian felt echoes of their dark presence emanate from all around him. He pushed off a bulkhead and flew through the darkness. Up ahead, he could see the pin-pricks of stars illuminate the Wing’s cockpit. He glided to it.

No-one is here. Deactivating his lightsaber, the Jensaarai frowned. What to do? Clearly this Palestar is hiding. If he wanted to fight me head-on, he would have found me by now. So do I wander in the darkness in his strange ship looking for him? Despite his curiosity of the man and his machine, his logic got the better of him. I don’t particularly like the possibility of being ambushed by someone great enough to threaten a force spirit… He sat down at one of the cockpit’s chairs, glancing at the ship’s controls. His emerald eyes found one. That should do the trick. Ravenna tapped the button, restoring the ship’s power, as well as all of its basic amenities: life support, lights, and artificial gravity.

A loud clang rang out down a corridor behind him and to the left. That sounds promising. He rose from the chair, and for the first time, actually stood on the ship itself. The Jensaarai strode towards where the noise had come from. And there it was: a grate laying off-center and twisted on the floor. The Jensaarai glanced up. An air shaft. That would make sense. There’s probably more oxygen there than anywhere else if the life support gets shut off. Too bad I’m not slim enough to fit in it.

Fool. Do you really only trust your own senses and judgement in a time like this?

Adrian hesitated. It’s always easier to believe my eyes than some voice talking inside my head.

Than see as I do.

Adrian glanced at the vent, stretched out towards the vent and felt no presence there aside from the background presence which pulse through the ship. It’s empty, or so it seems...but anyone with a basic knowledge of using the Force for stealth…

He tapped a button on his lightsaber, reactivating its ocean blue blade. He stared at the vent, and with practiced motion, hurled the weapon at it. Sparks rained down on the hallway and metal shuddered as the lightsaber tore apart the ventilation system. Raw gases sublimed and flowed downward into hallway; creating a haze almost thicker than durasteel. A blue rod hurled out of it and back at him. Stretching out his hand, Adrian pulled its hilt to his hand.

Well, he can’t be here then…

It was the sound of the rattling lightsaber that made Dacian tense. This would be the moment of action... but in his weakness, he could hardly lift the smuggling plate by itself, much less with someone standing on it.

For the Force, however, mere physical limits should be nothing. At his prime Dacian had managed much more difficult maneauvers with his Force ability before. He tried to summon that power now, willing the panel above his head to fly away and splatter his would-be attacker against the ceiling.

Yet for all his focus and all his exertion, the floor panel moved not an inch. The dark power trapped in his face mask felt cold and empty, and the spirits trapped in his looted breastplate fell silent. The mysterious power of the Force abandoned him right there in his moment of utmost need, leaving Dacian even frailer than he had been before. It was all he could do to keep a pathetic gasp of pain from leaking through his lips.

This was it, the full spite of the Force levelled against him. Just as the mysterious author had forewarned, the Force had a will and it chose its own champions, forging for them destinies that it enforced with its favour. Dacian trembled with rage yet he was unable to summon even the barest of Force powers. He felt blind and deaf, moreso than he had felt even before discovering his rare gifts many years ago.

This would not be how Dacian Palestar met his ordained fate though, no. No mere pawn of the Force's will. He drew his lightsaber - honest steel and plasma - and ignited the pale yellow blade. This he thrust into the smuggling compartment above him, slicing through it with all of his remaining strength.

Dacian cut a hole through the panel, but his foe had stepped clear and been unharmed. Climbing out of the compartment was all the more arduous than getting in, but now at least he stood on his own two feet with his saber held firmly forwards.

The foe was unfamiliar, although this did not surprise Dacian overmuch. He too had a lightsaber, another likely sign that this was the Force's chosen harbinger. Suddenly blind though he was to it, Dacian also suspected the intruder had Force mastery to match.

There was no pithy remark or dire warning for this duel, just Dacian's ragged breathing and dagger-like stare. For the moment he managed only to hold his ground and await his enemy's first move.

Adrian watched the man clamber out of his hole with pained fascination. He resisted the urge to simply slash the man in the back as he struggled out. It wouldn't be honorable. The Sith have no restraints, the Jedi embrace the code of their order, and the Jensaarai limit and elevate themselves by their personal honor. Adrian flourished his blade in a salute to the back of his opponent. Ravenna caught eye of the yellow blade. Interesting. The Sith are famed for their red blades; the Jedi for their blue and green. So what does yellow stand for? The man who chooses a path different then those sects. The man who chooses a path of his own? The other man glared at the Jensaarai through his mask. Through the now thinning haze, Adrian became aware that the man was as unsimilar to a Sith or Jedi as he was; yet he distinctly felt that they were two opposites destined to clash.

But they did not clash.

They simply stared.

This Dacian's emotions were almost more deadly than the blade which he carried. Hatred and spite lashed out from the man at Adrian; the Jensaarai quickly quelled the notion to respond in righteous anger. Instead focusing and drawing himself in the meditative art of lightsaber combat. He raised his saber in a high guard, and silently advanced into the haze towards the other man. As he did, Adrian whipped his saber in the quick defensive arcs characteristic of the Soresu practicioner. But while his ocean blue blade flashed everywhere around him, Adrian's eyes bored into those of this Palestar.